Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
08-14-2012, 08:03 AM
Originally posted on MSPA by Snowyowl.
Admiral Winters was a troubled man. Yes, they'd arrived at the New Frontier. Yes, they had supplies to spare, the same number of airships they'd set out with, and the journey had gone as well as anyone could have hoped. And, naturally, everyone was trying to take credit for this achievement, himself included, though he knew it had been due to luck as much as any great leadership skills. To a seasoned and superstitious sailor (like most of the crew of the HMS Conquest, and indeed the entire fleet) this meant that they were due for some bad karma soon to balance it out.
The problem currently at the front of Winters' mind was that, according to the agreement he had made before they set off, he would not be eligible to become the Governor of the island once the settlement was established. Which was fine and logical; he was a sky-sailor by nature, he knew the fleet better than anyone, it was best for himself and for all the colonists that he continue to be the Admiral of the New Frontier Mission. The problem was that there were several other people who could become the Governor, and nobody had been able to decide who exactly it would be. Until now it hadn't been a serious difficulty; most of the settlers didn't really care one way or the other, and the five or six factions that had formed among the senior officers mostly cancelled each other out by virtue of none of them wanting to make enemies with each other. But the decision couldn't be put off any longer.
So he paced around his cabin, and then paced around the deck, and only barely noticed the wind blowing a number of papers around and knocking a rather tasteful-looking pen to the floor.
-----
It really was quite windy in the open sky. Not so badly that you'd be out of control if you could fly under your own power - all the ships here had been through far worse storms, this gentle breeze wouldn't trouble a butterfly. But a loose sheet of paper would be blown around the sky completely at random. Not that the loose sheet of paper was particularly concerned by that.
A small chart at the bottom of the page showed after a moment's calculation that its owner had been extremely bored for the last 23 and a bit years. The page's owner was currently on the other side, admiring the view. Due to what might have been a manifestation of some magical power surrounding the island or perhaps a demonstration that this universe had a taste for drama (but was more likely a meaningless coincidence), the prevailing winds created a small whirlwind at the exact spot where the view of the island was the most spectacular. Of course, there are very few views of giant flying islands which are not spectacular, but it was a little annoying for the Broadcaster when his favourite camera started showing a blurry picture of the words "DAYS 8485".
Rethrick's dossiers fell away beneath Quino, and the words on them passed briefly across his mind -- capability to produce an ecosystem -- weak hypnotic influence -- but he ignored them. He likewise ignored the slight mental strain which indicated that his sigils were in several locations at once. There would be time to check on that later.
The island was quite gigantic. It was a lot wider than it was tall; the proportions roughly put Quino in mind of a mile-thick saucer. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out individual trees, and shapes flying over them - birds? They'd have to be enourmous. Quino had thought for a moment that the island might be an artificial thing, something built by a powerful madman, but suddenly the idea seemed ludicrous. It wasn't just that the trees were so large that they must have been ancient ten thousand years ago; the entire place looked alive, and wild. It gleamed with untapped potential. This wasn't a place that had been built, this was a place for building in. And, yes, it promised strange and dangerous mysteries, and Quino was only too happy to be counted among them.
He fell down. Quino had wondered whether there was an engine of some sort underneath the island, but there was only unmarked rock (though pitted with caves and the occasional shrub that apparently hadn't noticed it was upside-down). Water crashed down around the outline of the island, eventually turning to mist and merging with the layer of clouds underneath the island. There were still birds fluttering around the waterfalls - some sort of waterbird, gulls perhaps - that rested in the island's shadow and caught the occasional fish that fell off the falls.
The sky above the island was clear today, but the clouds underneath it meant the ground wasn't visible from the island's edge. The ink on Quino's page started to run as it passed through the damp fog; it became imperceptibly more difficult to keep his attention on the same sigil. Underneath the clouds was the ocean, not nearly as far down as Quino had been expecting. It was dark down here, even at high noon. The island's shadow kept it cold and cloudy; the light was thin and grey. The water was surprisingly clear, though, and in the half-light Quino was sure he could see large shapes moving under the surface.
Then the yellowing page hit the water and disintegrated, and Quino was on the deck of the Ragazza Ridente.
Admiral Winters was a troubled man. Yes, they'd arrived at the New Frontier. Yes, they had supplies to spare, the same number of airships they'd set out with, and the journey had gone as well as anyone could have hoped. And, naturally, everyone was trying to take credit for this achievement, himself included, though he knew it had been due to luck as much as any great leadership skills. To a seasoned and superstitious sailor (like most of the crew of the HMS Conquest, and indeed the entire fleet) this meant that they were due for some bad karma soon to balance it out.
The problem currently at the front of Winters' mind was that, according to the agreement he had made before they set off, he would not be eligible to become the Governor of the island once the settlement was established. Which was fine and logical; he was a sky-sailor by nature, he knew the fleet better than anyone, it was best for himself and for all the colonists that he continue to be the Admiral of the New Frontier Mission. The problem was that there were several other people who could become the Governor, and nobody had been able to decide who exactly it would be. Until now it hadn't been a serious difficulty; most of the settlers didn't really care one way or the other, and the five or six factions that had formed among the senior officers mostly cancelled each other out by virtue of none of them wanting to make enemies with each other. But the decision couldn't be put off any longer.
So he paced around his cabin, and then paced around the deck, and only barely noticed the wind blowing a number of papers around and knocking a rather tasteful-looking pen to the floor.
-----
It really was quite windy in the open sky. Not so badly that you'd be out of control if you could fly under your own power - all the ships here had been through far worse storms, this gentle breeze wouldn't trouble a butterfly. But a loose sheet of paper would be blown around the sky completely at random. Not that the loose sheet of paper was particularly concerned by that.
A small chart at the bottom of the page showed after a moment's calculation that its owner had been extremely bored for the last 23 and a bit years. The page's owner was currently on the other side, admiring the view. Due to what might have been a manifestation of some magical power surrounding the island or perhaps a demonstration that this universe had a taste for drama (but was more likely a meaningless coincidence), the prevailing winds created a small whirlwind at the exact spot where the view of the island was the most spectacular. Of course, there are very few views of giant flying islands which are not spectacular, but it was a little annoying for the Broadcaster when his favourite camera started showing a blurry picture of the words "DAYS 8485".
Rethrick's dossiers fell away beneath Quino, and the words on them passed briefly across his mind -- capability to produce an ecosystem -- weak hypnotic influence -- but he ignored them. He likewise ignored the slight mental strain which indicated that his sigils were in several locations at once. There would be time to check on that later.
The island was quite gigantic. It was a lot wider than it was tall; the proportions roughly put Quino in mind of a mile-thick saucer. Even at this distance, it was possible to make out individual trees, and shapes flying over them - birds? They'd have to be enourmous. Quino had thought for a moment that the island might be an artificial thing, something built by a powerful madman, but suddenly the idea seemed ludicrous. It wasn't just that the trees were so large that they must have been ancient ten thousand years ago; the entire place looked alive, and wild. It gleamed with untapped potential. This wasn't a place that had been built, this was a place for building in. And, yes, it promised strange and dangerous mysteries, and Quino was only too happy to be counted among them.
He fell down. Quino had wondered whether there was an engine of some sort underneath the island, but there was only unmarked rock (though pitted with caves and the occasional shrub that apparently hadn't noticed it was upside-down). Water crashed down around the outline of the island, eventually turning to mist and merging with the layer of clouds underneath the island. There were still birds fluttering around the waterfalls - some sort of waterbird, gulls perhaps - that rested in the island's shadow and caught the occasional fish that fell off the falls.
The sky above the island was clear today, but the clouds underneath it meant the ground wasn't visible from the island's edge. The ink on Quino's page started to run as it passed through the damp fog; it became imperceptibly more difficult to keep his attention on the same sigil. Underneath the clouds was the ocean, not nearly as far down as Quino had been expecting. It was dark down here, even at high noon. The island's shadow kept it cold and cloudy; the light was thin and grey. The water was surprisingly clear, though, and in the half-light Quino was sure he could see large shapes moving under the surface.
Then the yellowing page hit the water and disintegrated, and Quino was on the deck of the Ragazza Ridente.